


Falling in Reverse

by Atsvie



Series: No Serum [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anorexia, Growing Up, M/M, Post Cuba, no serum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsvie/pseuds/Atsvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After-Cuba Hank won't even look at him, and it's killing Alex despite his attempts to grow into the better man that Erik hadn't been. He won't repeat the broken relationship of their mentors, he and Hank don't have to be Charles and Erik. </p>
<p>In which Alex learns to grow up and saves a breaking Hank in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nights when Erik visits the mansion—the academy now, too—it's always quiet. There's an absence of a mental reassurance on the brim of their minds. They know that Charles is still there, despite the temporary lack of mental vigilance, but that may be just because the threat is in front of him where his naked eye can watch his every move, see his intentions in the gestures of his body language. Though there isn't a real threat, not from Erik at least, the air still sinks around them in what is a blanket of tension woven with apprehension, as if the older ones who _know_ are still waiting for something volatile to happen. 

 

Alex hates it when Erik visits.

 

He pads down to the ground level softly, past the bunker and towards the steel frame of the lab. The children are all asleep, and a good portion of the teachers too—because they weren't  _there_ for it, they can't understand that dull ache and panic—with the exception of Sean and himself. And he knows what the other is doing that night, from the distinct roll of smoke under his door, the burning scent that carries up in wisps, and Alex knows he is trying to forget. To some extent, they all are. 

 

Naturally, Hank is awake too; Hank is always awake, and Alex wonders when he finds the time to sleep. If it isn't for the food that Alex brings to him, he knows that the research minded man would probably forget to glance up from his whatever-he-is-working on. (Alex watches now, when he sets the plate in front of him until the last morsel is swallowed. Then he waits, arms crossed and expectant, making sure that he keeps it all down and is nourished, healthy.)

 

Alex thinks about turning on the radio when Hank doesn't turn around—like always—or acknowledge that he had entered. If anything, it will spur Hank to say something, even if it's just a quiet, 'turn that off'. Hank had told him before that he can't work with music or outside distractions, not because he is bad at multitasking, but because he  _can't_ . It takes up too much energy to switch from task to task, more time to form a coherent, steady bond back to his research with idle static being interpreted under the surface. Hank is like that, though. He sets all of his focus on one task, one object, until it he makes himself sick with ambition and blocks out everything and everyone that might deter him from his purpose. 

 

It's ridiculous, the blonde thinks and drops his head between his hands, peeking through the cracks of his fingers at the brunette hunched over his table, that he's jealous of inanimate objects and intangible ideas. But he is, because they're what Hank loves  _most_ , even if one at a time until the object has been reached and cleared. Alex knows that he's just a juvee kid without a college degree and too many anger problems, but sometimes he wishes that he was interesting enough to snag Hank's attention to just  _look at him_ , to just pass into his field of gravity for a  _moment_ like he had done one night where everything had burst. 

 

If it weren't for Cuba, for the jeering shock to everyone's tentative emotional state, Alex wonders if things would have gone differently. Hank of course had been emotionally raw, trying to stuff his life back into the jacket of his skin and rearrange it to fit the new skeleton of ideals that Alex had helped institute. The scars hadn't healed enough, Charles, Erik, Raven, the cumulation of energy had struck back and tore through the stitches leaving gaping wounds that had shut Alex out for the better part of the first two months.

 

Alex secretly blames Erik for taking Hank away from him, just as much as he blames him for the bullet that deflected into his heart's father's spine.

 

“He's here,” Alex murmurs, voice ghosting over his hands in soft vibrations as he thinks about the lack of one presence in exchange for another overpowering and much unwanted one. “Magneto,” he clarifies, the title like anathema on his tongue, and he feels the burn of stomach acid at the thought of referring to him by what he had once called a father figure, an older brother that he had seen so much of himself in—the hate, the rage, the anger, and all the ways that Erik had seemed to have controlled them, the hope that Alex could control the storm of himself too.

 

“I know.”

 

Alex swallows down a bark of anger. Why can't Hank talk to him, to anyone other than Charles—and even that he thinks is out of some wayward guilt that Hank harbors for no reason but that he's Hank and makes up sins to cling to himself like molten strip of iron to a magnet, slowly welding into him. It hurts, and within the last two months of being avoided and not meeting those gorgeous blue eyes, which he misses terribly, he has come to terms with accepting that he is not indestructible and that he can be hurt. Emotional wounds are harder to deal with, but Alex now knows how to stop the bleeding by at least recognizing their existence. It was a minor step, but one that had taken far too long on a road of stunted emotional development and by himself. It had taken others—Charles, Hank, and before-Erik—to act as a catalyst, albeit slowly, the reaction is working.

 

He doesn't want Hank to have to be alone to be able to reach those conclusions.

 

He may just be an angry kid without a college degree, and a closet full of resentment and problems, but Alex would like to think that he can see a pinlight of hope in the navy wash of the sky. After Cuba, which is how his memories and character have been compartmentalized in his mind, before-Cuba and after-Cuba, he had told himself that he can't be a brat forever. He can't turn into Magneto.

 

Sometimes he talks to Sean about it, because Charles is too busy trying to pretend that nothing has changed and focus all his energy on the school, and Hank trying to invent his way out of their broken family and the new dynamics that have been set up. Sean has taken the opposite approach. While Alex is gunning up to dive into adulthood and be the man that he has never had a paragon for, Sean is falling backwards into a safety net of youth and disowning all responsibility for Cuba and the feelings that come with it. He smokes away his problems, halfheartedly whining that everything sucks while Alex dully agrees and refuses the blunt.

 

One night, the second night that Magneto had broken in and shaken the peace of mind that they had been working on building up, Alex lets Sean tug him away from everything that matters. He coughs on the smoke in his throat, the burning sensation makes him want to shove it away as his eyes water. His best friend laughs, and the next time he passes it to him, he lets the smoke creep down into his lungs in an slow embrace. Sean is looking up at the ceiling, pupils blown and the rims of his eyes a flush pink, and Alex tells him that he's in love with Hank.

 

“And?” Sean reaches up, fingers clenching in the air a few times before his arm flops back over his head. “Everyone knows. Except Hank. You should tell him,” he drawls the matter-of-fact tone out lazily, words curling around the hazy smoke.

 

Alex would tell him, and he thinks about doing so almost every time he sits in his lab and watches for a sign that Hank would believe him, much less respond to it. At least Before-Cuba, when he had called Hank childish names that he hadn't meant, he had evoked flustered expressions that were  _always_ focused on  _him_ . 

He would do anything to just have Hank look at him again.

 

Alex tries again, hoping for something other than an 'I know', even though one of the aspects of Hank that he loves is the expanse of knowledge that makes him seem as if he does know everything. He raps his knuckles against the metal of the table as if to warn him, “Do you hate him, for what he did to the Professor?”  _To what he did to us_ is left unsaid, the words hanging between his tongue and the air.

 

Hank is only a couple feet away from him, perched on a stool like an over sized bird pecking at his work. Before-Cuba, Hank was lanky and almost too thin. Now, he's beyond too thin, Alex thinks and eyes the way that the fabric falls away from his frame, and he can imagine the way that his ribs probably protrude from under his skin. His skin has taken a permanent pallor, either from holing himself in the dim lab, or from lack of nourishment altogether.

 

Alex still thinks he's beautiful. Even more so, as Hank lifts his head and he sees the glint of sapphire irises for the first time in months, and it nearly takes the breath out of his lungs altogether as if memory alone doesn't do justice to just how  _shockingly rich_ the color expands. And he knows he can't live off the memory of Before-Cuba Hank, no matter how much he loves him and he wants to shake him back into the slight progress they had made, because Alex also wants to love After-Cuba Hank just as much, if not more. 

 

“I don't know,” Hank sounds unsure of his own voice, tone falling, “He didn't mean to.”

 

“He _left us_ , though,” Alex breathes, and he hates that Hank doesn't hate him as much as Alex does. He wants him to agree, to understand so that they can relate on some sort of steady, common ground, because he feels so far away from Hank right now even though he's only a few feet away. Hank is somewhere towards the horizon, on the edge of something that truly terrifies Alex. He wants to be able to pull him back away from it, to keep him grounded, but that requires reaching him first and Alex has no common patch of ground to step towards him on. 

 

It scares Alex that Hank is so far away from him now.

 

The brunette doesn't reply, and rage is bubbling up his throat, “He broke Charles. He broke  _ us.  _ Everything we had is fucked up, and he has the nerve to show back up when we're trying to rebuild and move on, and you don't  _ care? _ ”

 

Once upon a time, Hank would have been the rope that tied him back and reminded him how to tame the monster in the form of anger. He had been the control and the sanity for the both of them—even though Alex now knows that he had been silently battling his own monsters and wishes he could go back and help him fight them off before the wear started to show physical signs of defeat. Alex craves the wave of calm that Hank used to emanate.

 

Now, he just looks at him with an unchanging press of his lips. Any sign of life in his eyes is frozen in blue ice. Alex feels like choking, because he doesn't know how to fix this. His hand reaches out, falling on Hank's forearm. He visibly  _ flinches _ , but Alex doesn't pull away, just stares back at him like he could try to plead with him to talk to him, to look at him like he had  Before-Cuba and the night where Alex had thought that he had slain the monsters lurking in the dark. He hadn't. 

 

“Alex, I need to--”

 

“No,” Alex  _ croaks _ , pulling the fabric of Hank's sterile lab coat into the curl of his fingers, “Why won't you  _ talk to me? _ I miss you, Hank. I hate seeing you like this, and—and I know that a lot of shit has happened, and that Erik fucked everything up. But I don't want to be Erik.” 

 

He can't balance his rage like Erik can. He can only tame his, not use it as a manifestation of his power under his reigns. He doesn't want to become poisoned with it, though, because Erik took it like a double edged sword, and Alex would not be doomed to the same fate as him. He would be the better man that Charles had idealized.

 

Hank is rigid under his hand, like he wants to pull away but is too conflicted or trapped to do so. His jaw sets hard, Adam apple bobbing with a dry swallow, “I'm doing work, building what the Academy needs. This is important.”

 

“You are killing yourself! When was the last time you were outside? There's more to you than that stupid large brain,” Alex searches his expression for any falter, for any crack where he slip in and pull him out.

 

There's a moment of disbelief, and Alex wonders if Hank realizes that he actually is more than a mind. Because he is, and god he is so beautiful and powerful that Alex could scream at him if that is what it takes for Hank to recognize that he is amazing in ways that leave Alex breathless. He wants him to realize that he is in love with him so harshly that it feels like he's crashing every time Hank  _ looks  _ at him. 

 

“I can't do this now. Alex, stop.”

 

_Why won't you let me help you? Stop pushing me away._

 

_You are so so stupid and irritating—_

 

_and brilliant and beautiful._

 

_I love you, Hank._

 

“Okay.”

 

Alex spins on his heel, hands shaking violently as he walks up to his room and bites back the words he couldn't say, a copper aftertaste left on his tongue. Magneto is gone, and he can feel the brush of Charles' mind on his even more forceful than before, protective like a startled mother bear and he knows that something hadn't gone well. It rarely does, though.

 

He breathes in the smoke past Sean's room, focusing on the weight of gravity like it's the last thing to keep him grounded. He's afraid that the string keeping him tethered had been cut, and he can't tell if he had salvage it despite the hollow drift. He won't become Erik, he tells himself as he drops to the ground, sliding against the door of his bedroom. Hank is not Charles, despite the brilliance and similar nature. They will not become their mistakes, Alex will not let it happen as he watches the older men mutually destroy each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner that night is two variations of spaghetti, made with different sauces because Jean and Ororo have gotten picky with their food but will eat the sweeter tomato sauce offered to them nonetheless. The children chatter happily, the elder ones communicating more by facial expressions and knowing glances as they fork at the noodles that are prepared by Sean and subsequently too soft to be considered gourmet.   
  
Everyone is still grateful.   
  
Charles sits at the head of the table, pausing in between bites to smile and comment on whichever child is talking to him at that moment. He looks worn for a man that's not yet thirty, but maybe that's just because Alex remembers all of the vibrancy that leaked off of him initially. No one can really expect him to be the same man, not after Erik and opening a school for young mutant children with more energy than a nuclear bomb.   
  
Alex scrapes off the remaining bit of meat in the sauce onto his fork, sucking on the metal thoughtfully before he feels a subtle push on the surface of his mind. Immediately looking towards Charles, he is met with a small smile and a nod towards the empty seat where the occupant once again skipped dinner. He nods back, already used to the habitual favor that has come with Hank never emerging from his lab down the hall.  
  
Every time, Charles always asks Alex and he wonders if its the Professor's way of insinuating he needs to fix Hank. Part of him is angry, because it's not like he hasn't tried and it's not his fault—he tells himself this enough every day—that Hank won't eat and that all the progress they had made had been set back in bounds. Because Charles can't possibly understand how much he wishes that he could make it all better for Hank, and that he really loves Hank—which in itself is a new concept for him to acknowledge to himself, like a precious keepsake that he's afraid to tarnish because whispering to himself that he has genuine feelings for him makes the weight in his chest much lighter than trying to think of a million reasons to avoid that truth.   
  
And maybe Hank would have been better without Alex, and all of his teasing and his meddling because without Alex he would have found his own happiness in the serum, and wouldn't be slowly killing himself through an intangible poison. But Alex is too selfish, and while he feels guilty, he secretly loves that Hank still has his weird feet and the nerdy charm; he isn't sure if he would have been alright with giving that up. Not to say that he doesn't want a confident Hank, because he does, but he had hoped that he could have built upon his already flawless, despite the brunette's self doubt, foundation. Now Alex just feels like his help has fucked up more than he had ever actually helped.  
  
Erik would have understood.   
  
After another reassuring smile from the Professor, Alex lifts himself up from the table to instruct the children to all pick up their respective task for cleaning up. Taking the dirty plate in front of Charles on his way to the sink, he doesn't miss the small wave of affection that rolls down his neck, slightly paternal and warranting a tiny grin from the blonde.   
  
“Got any soup left?” Alex bumps his hip against Sean's, who is switching between spraying Piotr and the suds on the plates with the nozzle.   
  
Sean snorts and gets in one last spray at Piotr before shooting Alex a lopsided grin, “For you? I might even have noodles and sauce.”

  
“Aren't yours the same thing?” Alex hums and holds out a clean plate for Sean to pile Hank's portion onto. He uses the fork to swirl the spaghetti into looking as appetizing as possible, in hopes that it will actually be eaten for once.   
  
Sean laughs heartily, clapping him on the shoulder and remarks that he looks forward to Alex grilling this summer, like his cooking will prevail as most edible. There's a silent _good luck_ behind the light hearted words, and Banshee reclaims his namesake as soon as he realizes that one of the kids left their plate unwashed.  
  
Domestic, Alex thinks to himself and pads down the hallway with Sean's amplified voice echoing behind him. The subtle grace of gravity weighs down on his shoulders as he approaches the lab. Alex knows that this, again, won't go well, but can't help but hope a little, as if to brush off the boulder of doubt that reminds him of all the odds against him. Maybe he wants to collapse under the pressure a bit, but he can't just _give up_ on him.  
  
With the warm plate balanced on his palm, he uses his other shoulder to nudge open the door to the lab. He walks in unannounced, taking note of the same sterile lights and smells since the last time that he had visited. It's surprisingly never cluttered though, he notices as he walks past neatly lined test tubes. It's like the lab is the only thing that Hank ever puts effort into keeping consistent besides his work, and he can just imagine him tidying up to calm his nerves because cleaning is something that he would do for some relief (instead of running or talking with him, he thinks momentarily).   
  
“Brought dinner,” Alex sets the plate next to the form hunched over a microscope. His lab coat is draped around him and looks more like a sheet than an article of clothing, like he's trying to swaddle himself in cotton to accommodate for the lack of heat generated elsewhere.   
  
“Not now.”  
  
Alex perches on the stool next to him, brows knitting together. He tries again, “Sean made it. He's going to be a five star chef or something.”  
  
“Later.”  
  
Alex inhales the scent of the lab, the cooling spaghetti, and the faint scent that is Hank as he remembers how to propel the air through his lungs and back out, releasing the rising ill feelings. It feels like lava getting ready to erupt, but it eats at him from the inside out because he's more upset with himself for not being able to get Hank to eat than mad at Hank for refusing. He's not going to let it hurt the now silent man through collateral damage, though. Alex is better than this, he tells himself.   
  
And maybe it's a bit like falling, because it hits him that he's not able to get Hank to perform the most basic of functions, not able to nourish the beautiful vessel housing an equally beautiful mind. So how is he supposed to make amends for the complex strings of emotions that are so easily tangled? The hope is starting to tail off, and all the nice theories that Alex has come up with and recited to himself, all the scenarios that play in his mind like a film on a screen are falling back with the progress that Hank had abandoned.  
  
So Alex falls back onto the one emotion he can truly understand and grasp when he's trying to reach for something even on an animalistic level to just relate to him: anger. He knows that he himself has come a long way, that he has more control than this, he shouldn't get mad but--

  
He can't stand watching Hank kill himself.  
  
“You need to eat,” he says slowly, voice strained with heavy flares of emotion ready to burst.  
  
“I don't need to do anything,” Hank snaps, and he is tearing himself away from the microscope to glare with those ridiculously blue eyes and his red mouth tightens. They're both a bit wild now. Alex can feel his throat burning, and he grips the edge of the table; Hank just stares back at him with wide eyes.  
  
Alex hisses at him, nudging the plate closer and watches as Hank recoils from it like he was just offered arsenic on fine china. “Hank, you're a scientist for god's sake, you know what you're doing to yourself.”  
  
Hank had once been a lanky teenager that really just hadn't grown into his own skin—or feet—but now he looks like a defeated man. Alex has to remind himself that they're not quite kids anymore, and the thought sends blood thudding through his ears like he's lost an eternity. He knows that Hank is stronger than he lets on, and it's the power bubbling under the surface that he needs to let off in steam—suddenly Alex realizes that they really _are_ similar—because he's just focuses all that willpower into extremes in all the wrong places.  
  
God, Hank can be so amazing and he doesn't even know it.   
  
“Yes, and I know what I'm doing,” Hank's expression doesn't waver, “I'm fine. Now stop.”  
  
“Then what _are_ you doing? How can this possibly help you by not eating?” Alex insists, and he feels a little desperate as he searches Hank's face for any indication that he can break through the cement walls that he's built around himself. He feels his own voice reverberating back at him, like Hank isn't really there at all but just holed off somewhere else with the skeleton left behind.   
  
The look that Hank gives him is a bit like falling into water and trying to inhale. There's nothing else around him but the cerulean of Hank's eyes and the dull shine that appears so tired. It overwhelms him like he can't move his arms to swim up to the surface because _Hank_ his source of oxygen and he's cutting him off whether he knows it or not. Intense and something not quite whole, there's so much more to Hank than Alex could ever hope to wrap his mind around. He's this vast ocean with crashing waves sending him sputtering onto the shore.  
  
“You wouldn't understand,” Hank mumbles.   
  
“I'm an idiot compared to you, dumb it down so I can understand,” he breathes in slowly, the air shallow in his throat and he almost wants to plead with Hank for a bit more so he can breathe.  
  
Since when has he _needed_ anyone?  
  
Oh.   
  
It takes Alex a full moment of draining the water from his lungs and Hank's uncomfortable shift in front of him to recover from the impact of the full force that hits him. Falling in love isn't falling at all, he realizes and feels like he had physically been swept away by a tsunami; he grips the edge of the table harder. For Alex Summers, falling in love with Hank McCoy had been the moment that he had realized that he was being drowned and would still consider him his saving breath. It's something so powerful that he almost feels sick. He had thought to himself before, I must love Hank in all of his controlled genius, but the magnitude is nothing like that of drowning in the pool of self loathing and all the faults that encompass the other mutant.   
  
He has never wanted one person in his life so much, and the epiphany is one of the most painful sensations that he has ever experienced.   
  
Although he feels a bit dizzy and like the waves have tossed him back and forth enough, Alex waits with silent anticipation for Hank to guide him through the opaque window of his mind to make it just a bit clearer.   
  
“I have body dysmorphic disorder,” Hank states in a scientific and cool voice, like he's not really talking about himself at all, “Basically, the thought of looking at myself makes me sick.”  
  
He smiles, and Alex feels his stomach lurch a bit at the confession as if he is now expecting Alex to laugh or be disgusted. The curve of his lips tilt up on one side, and it's more self mocking and not at all humorous, and generally just _heartwrenching_. Because Alex can tell from the matter of fact tone that this isn't news to Hank, but a concept that he has researched and battled on his own up until this point. The expression wears cracks and tears, like his resolve has finally weathered away in his own storm.   
  
Hank continues, “Do you know what that's like? My mutation is never going to be considered beautiful, and it's on a very not beautiful person. And I can't do anything about that. Graduated Harvard at 15 and I _can't do anything_.”  
  
Alex feels like dark waters are embracing him too tightly.  
  
“If I don't eat, at least part of me is smaller. Maybe not my feet, but I don't know how else to be normal.”  
  
Alex knows the word for this before Hank echoes his thought. Anorexia. It's not something that he's entirely familiar with, because he can't imagine anyone wanting to deny themselves food, but he knows that the Professor expressed concern over the preteen girls, and somewhere along the line, he knows that in some isolated cases, women use it as a coping mechanism. But as a whole, his understanding of it is flawed and this is Hank.  
  
“But you're killing yourself,” Alex whispers, the volume of his voice lost somewhere in the back of his throat. Hank is right; he doesn't understand, _can't understand_ , why Hank does this to himself when he's already perfect. _How can I show him_? This is so far off the spectrum of Alex's emotional competency that he literally feels his hand shake at the disconcert.   
  
“So what?”  
  
“You can't just starve yourself to death! You have people who care about you, Hank,” _I care about you_ , “And you're brilliant and I told you before that you're beautiful, it's not like this has changed just because everything else has.”   
  
The doubt on Hank's face is clear; it's something like trying to empty the ocean by pouring it out cup by cup trying to get his point across.   
  
“Alex, it wouldn't matter. You would go on just fine.”  
  
“No! I wouldn't!” Alex is yelling now, off the stool and pushing himself into Hank's face with all regard for his personal space gone. He can't understand, it doesn't make sense to him, and it _hurts_ , and he just wants Hank to be okay, to stop killing himself and Alex just needs Hank and—  
  
Alex can't hear his own words through the rush of air that lifts his mind from his head, but he knows what he said because he feels the syllables ring on his vocal chords. So impulsive and rushed.  
  
 _I love you._  
  
It's not as dramatic and meaningful as he would have thought it to be, but the confession hangs over them both, blurted out without grace. It's blunt and crude and untimely, and Alex can't even reprimand himself for letting it slip because he means it too much.   
  
“Get out.”  
  
Alex's stomach drops, “Hank—“  
  
“Don't,” Hank isn't looking at him anymore, “ _Do not._ I know you are lying. Stop.”  
  
The world is tumbling down clumsily out of orbit, stardust flitting around the edges of his mind because Alex feels all sense of gravity starting to unhook itself from the laws of physics. Nothing is anchored, and he isn't really sure as to what he's grasping at now.   
  
“I'm not lying. I love you, seriously, I think you're gorgeous. Why is this _bad_?” Alex almost pleads with him, wringing his hands in his lap until the skin feels raw. This isn't supposed to be a trigger, this is supposed to be the saving grace.   
  
“I'm not stupid. You don't love me, and if you think you do, you are delusional. It's not cute to love a monster, Alex. You're not saving me, and I don't want you to,” Hank's words dip low and hot, searing parts of the blonde's gut that he didn't know could make his nerves sing so high with pain. He's drifting, away from an anchor, away from Hank, and the ground.   
  
If he were the man he wants to be, he would manage a smile and ask if this constitutes rejection or a second chance. But he's falling back on the anger and the rage because that's something that his searchings fingers can wrap around.   
  
He only remembers the sensation of his fist connecting with the taller boy's cheek and the vibration of the door ringing on its hinges as he slams it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on anorexia:  
> \- Anorexia was not officially classified as a psychiatric disorder by the American Psychiatric Association until the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published in 1980. It was however named in the late 19th century, and was made aware of in the early 20th century.   
> -Common in perfectionist personality types, ones that have a lot of pressure on them and expected to do well. Abnormal behavior associated in the same neurotransmitters of the brain as depression.


End file.
